I never meant to become a globetrotting soldier. At 16, I was just a kid from Barnsley who signed up for the army. Little did I know I'd end up dodging rats in Jamaican bars, and sweating buckets on Saudi tarmacs. This isn't your grandad's war story or some glossy travel blog. It's the real, unvarnished truth of a clueless kid stumbling through history, one military mishap at a time.
From accidental encounters with IRA sympathisers to nearly being stranded in the Caribbean, my journey was anything but ordinary. So grab a pint (non-alcoholic or otherwise), sit back, and let me tell you about the time I almost flew on the Royal jet – and how spectacularly that plan fell apart.
In 1995 I served in Kenya for 12 weeks. It was the first deployment of my military career. Looking back, I realise how woefully unprepared I was for the chaos that awaited me in Africa.
From the moment we touched down, it was clear this wasn't going to be your average work trip. The air was thick with heat and the promise of adventure—and maybe a touch of danger. I quickly learned that my pockets were everyone else's business. The local pickpockets had hands quicker than a fighter jet, and within days, half our lads were walking around with their wallets on strings, like oversized yo-yos attached to their belts.
Then there was the beer. Oh, the beer! Cheap as chips and about as effective as water for the first hour. But get a few in you, and suddenly you're seeing double and singing "God Save the Queen" to a bewildered crowd of locals. We quickly learned to pace ourselves, Tusker is not the best tasting beer in the world. It’s not even the best tasting beer in Kenya!
Speaking of dodgy, the taxis were a whole other level of excitement. Picture this: it's pitch black, you're squeezed into what feels like a tin can on wheels, and you realise the headlights aren't working. "No problem, sir!" the driver would say with a grin.
But the real kicker? The inevitable, unforgiving, absolutely brutal dose of the shits that hit us all like a freight train. One by one, we fell victim to what we lovingly called the "Nanyuki Nightmare." I swear I spent more time sprinting to the loo than I did on actual military duties.
Despite it all—the petty thievery, the questionable beer, the death-defying taxi rides, and the gastrointestinal warfare—there was something oddly exhilarating about it all. “Welcome to the real world," the old hands would say, chuckling at our wide-eyed expressions.
Those 12 weeks in Kenya might have been my first deployment, but they set the tone for my entire military career. They taught me that sometimes, the best stories come from the worst situations. And let me tell you, I had plenty more stories to come.
The rest of the 90s were kind to me. I was lucky enough to serve in Cyprus (twice), Brunei, Jamaica and the Balkans (albeit under a humanitarian mission).
Back then, things were never straight forward when travelling with the Royal Air Force. On the way to Kenya, we landed in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. I have no idea to this day why we sat on the tarmac in 40-degree heat, waiting for the British Embassy to get us clearance through customs.
Aged 18, I was naive, and I had a lot to learn about the world, including countries serving non-alcoholic beer before it was a thing. We did eat endless amounts of smoked salmon at the lavish Sheraton hotel. All on the taxpayer's tab.
In 1998 I volunteered for a four week military exercise to Jamaica. During the trip, the trusty Royal Air Force did their best to fly us to the Caribbean Island in a record time of seven days! Yes, you read that right. It took us three attempts to leave UK airspace, and by day three we arrived in Gander, Newfoundland. That’s a wild and barren place. From there we detoured to Halifax, Nova Scotia, and then onto Florida.
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